


Whatever Happens

by Marauder_Lupine



Series: Not Left Behind [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, But John Doesn't Know Yet, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Someone Gets Shot But They're Okay, i don't know what to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marauder_Lupine/pseuds/Marauder_Lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John discovers what's been going on between Sherlock and Greg. Sequel to Everything Happens for a Reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Happens

**Author's Note:**

> Someone wondered what John's reaction might be to finding out about Sherlock and John. I hastily took on the challenge, but I'm not sure it came out well. You tell me.  
> Feel free to read Everything Happens for a Reason (and make sure to leave a comment :), but it's not really necessary.

John stopped just around the corner of the alley Sherlock had just ducked into. He looked behind him and saw Greg coming up fast, his mobile at his ear. Relaying their location back to Sergeant Donovan, probably, John figured. Ignoring the rush of blood pounding in his ears he could faintly make out the sirens a few blocks away. Taking a breath, John walked into the alley. He could hear Sherlock listing all the evidence that had led them to chase after this particular individual.

The suspect they had chased for blocks was panting, clearly winded from the chase. They'd finally caught up to the suspect after having to chase him around London for the better part of the day. He was no criminal mastermind by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd caught quite a few breaks that allowed him to slip through the Met's grasp since Sherlock had cracked the case the night before.

There was no where for him to go, the alley was a dead end. He looked annoyed though, listening to Sherlock. John hadn't noticed until he got closer that the young man was holding a gun in his right hand. He wasn't pointing it at Sherlock, hadn't brought up to aim at John as he approached, but John whispered to Sherlock to shut up. John felt the weight of his gun in the waistband of his jeans, he would use it if necessary, but it'd be for the better if he didn't have to.

“Sherlock, maybe you should stop talking now,” John had said.  
“Christ, Sherlock, is this really the time?” Lestrade said as he approached Sherlock's left side, his arms raised to show the suspect he wasn't going to harm him. At his appearance though, the young man began waving his arm about, his gun pointed in their direction.  
“He's not going to shoot, if he had wanted to shoot us, he would have had ample time to do so before you finally decided to join us,” Sherlock said with a flippant wave of his hand.  
The gunman sighed, “You don't think so, ay?” He raised his arm and took aim at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get 'em outta here, copper.”  
Lestrade nodded, “You heard him, gents. Away with the both of you. The quicker we settle this, the better chance at no one getting hurt.”

John caught Greg's eye and nodded in silent agreement and started to retreat, reaching out a hand to grasp Sherlock's elbow and pull him away. Sherlock shook him off and stepped closer to the suspect. Lestrade matched his movements and ordered John to stand behind him.

“You too,” he said to Sherlock.  
Sherlock shook his head, “Do as the Detective Inspector says, John. I'm not leaving until I know why the canary.” John and Lestrade both groaned at this. Now was not the time for Sherlock to satisfy his curiosity. “The rest is boring, but the canary is what drew my interest. I want to know.”  
“Now is not the time for this, Sherlock,” John pointed out in frustration.  
Sherlock sighed. “He's been caught, and he's frightened. He's not going to shoot anyone; doesn't even have bullets, I'd wager.” Sherlock was taunting the suspect.

The man walked backwards until his back hit the fence behind him. He _was_ frightened, but he wasn't going to allow Sherlock to embarrass him.

“You're that great detective, yeah?” the man asked, lowering his weapon. “Why the canary then, figure it out.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He needed Sherlock to just back away now and let him and his team handle the situation. Out of the corner of his eye he could spot someone on the roof of the building beside them. No one would take a shot while he was standing so close the the young man though, and he wouldn't back away until Sherlock did. Behind him he could hear John move to stand with his back against the brick wall of the building to their right. Beyond that, he could hear his officers communicating through their radios. He could end this quickly, and without bloodshed, if only their suspect wasn't armed.

“Why don't you put the gun down on the ground, son,” Lestrade said to the young man. The man scrunched up his face immediately and shook his head.  
“I'm not your son, old man,” he said as he ran his hand through his hair. Lestrade could see his other hand, holding the gun, start to tremble. Sherlock spotted it, too.

In a flash, Sherlock's face lit up and he spun around to face John, “That's it! The canary is for his father! He-”

That very next moment, Lestrade spotted the young man's arm raise up and take aim directly at Sherlock's back and shoot. In the blink of an eye, Lestrade had thrown himself in front of Sherlock and brought them both down to the ground as another shot echoed through the narrow alley.

With Sherlock tucked under him, he turned to see the young man slumped against the fence; his gun lay beside his lifeless body. There was a stampede of boots across the ground beside his head and John was saying something, but he couldn't quite make out what it was.

“Was he hit?” he heard himself ask. He got to his feet and let John have a better look at the other man.

John shook his head, but was carefully cleaning the loose gravel from the abrasion at Sherlock's temple where he'd hit the floor hard. John stayed crouched on the ground, trying to keep Sherlock from rushing to his feet in case of a concussion.

“Sir,” John heard someone say above him.  
“Greg,” John said when he looked up and noticed the gash across the sleeve of Lestrade's coat and the blood soaking through the fabric.

Lestrade looked at his arm and realized it was he who was shot. “I'm fine,” he said quickly. By this time Sherlock and John had both gotten to their feet. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, John saw, but whatever the look was in his eyes was gone after just a moment and he turned around and walked out of the alley.

“Check on him,” Lestrade said, batting away the shock blanket the medic was trying to put around his shoulders. John hesitated for a moment but decided Greg was would be fine in the hands of the medic.

“Sherlock,” he said when he caught up to him. “Slow down, let me check you over once more.”  
“I'm fine, John,” Sherlock said, obviously irritated.  
John nodded. “Humor me, will you?” He nicked a penlight from the back of the ambulance.

Sherlock sighed and let himself be pushed down onto the hood of a squad car while John shined the light in his eyes and asked him a few questions.

John decided Sherlock was fine. He'd have a nasty bruise on his cheek soon, it was already coloring, but no concussion.

“Tell me then,” John let out a sigh as the forensic team rushed passed them and sat next to Sherlock. “Why the canary?” Sherlock didn't explain, he just sat there glaring at the alley as people came and went.

\-----

It was nearly forty minutes they sat there before Greg finally came out of the alley and spotted them. Greg looked tired. They all were, he supposed. It was getting to be late, he realized. He didn't quite remember the sun setting, but it was getting dark. The street lights were starting to turn on and Greg's team was setting up a flood light. Greg was down to his vest, his left arm wrapped in a white bandage. He hadn't even noticed, having been so focused on checking on Sherlock. He should have noticed.

For not the first time, he realized that he did that often. He simply didn't notice Greg. Well no, that wasn't completely accurate. He didn't not notice Greg, he just didn't have to think much about him to know that he was around. He just was – around – whenever they needed him. He was around even when he hadn't wanted him around during those years Sherlock was gone. God only knew how often Greg dropped whatever he was doing when Sherlock needed him. Like that time, he remembered with a bit of fondness, that Sherlock asked for his help writing his speech for the wedding. Greg showed up with half the Met, Sherlock had told him, and after he'd sent everyone back to work and more than a bit of shouting, Greg made himself a cuppa and sat down to help Sherlock write his speech.

Before John could even say a word, Sherlock was up and striding towards the other man.

“How dare you, Lestrade,” he heard Sherlock shout. John immediately was on his feet, hurrying to stave off whatever was about to happen.  
“Excuse me?” Lestrade said, stopping just short of arm's length away from Sherlock.

John stepped away from the two of them with a sigh. He knew it would be best to let them shout at each other for a bit before trying to actually separate the two. That's how it had always been, at least.

Lately though, John thought as he kicked at a loose bit of gravel on the road, Sherlock and Greg had been acting a bit odd. Greg still called when he had a case, still stopped by a couple times a week when he had the chance, as far as he knew. But there had been something different when John saw them together recently. Ever since Sherlock had nearly gone away again, actually.

Sherlock never brought it up, and neither did Greg, so John didn't either. There had been the one time though, John thought. Only half listening to what the two were arguing about, John folded his arms to his chest and tried to remember the day, nearly two weeks ago now, when Greg invited him out for a pint. Mary hadn't been feeling well that day, and John really had wanted to cancel altogether, but Mary insisted he go. He cut the night short after just one drink.

He couldn't remember the last time they had gone out for a pint before that. No, actually, he could. It was just before Sherlock had returned. More than a year ago. He'd talked about wanting to propose to Mary; they had joked about Greg planning the ultimate boy's night out, and the types of activities Mary would absolutely not approve of. That seemed like ages ago now, John thought. Come to think of it, Greg hadn't even been invited out to his actual pub night with Sherlock, that night they'd gotten thrown into the drunk tank.

Suddenly, John realized why he had been trying to remember that day in particular. He felt another pang of guilt. Greg had seemed a bit odd that night, like he'd had something weighing on him, only he hadn't gotten the chance to get it off his chest. The way Greg was looking at Sherlock right now, that was how he had looked that night when John had said he had to leave early.

It was more than just having something to say. John couldn't quite place what else there was behind that look. It was like, Greg had lost his resolve about something, whatever it was he was thinking about, and was going to break down. Which to John, he realized, was quite worrisome. Greg was a rock. For as long as they'd known each other, Greg was a steadfast and solid presence behind Sherlock, behind all of them really. John remembered those years Sherlock was gone. It was getting chilly, but it was the memories of how dark his life had become after Sherlock left that made him shiver. And it was Greg who'd been there for him through all of that, patiently waiting for John to realize his world didn't have to stay so dark.

When John had put words to the look Lestrade was wearing, he stepped forward and pulled Sherlock back by his arm. Whatever was going on with Greg, or Greg and Sherlock, after everything that had just happened in that alley, he didn't need Sherlock in his face shouting and doing his best to be especially cruel. Greg could take it, he knew. He always took it up to a point before settling Sherlock down, but John felt compelled to put an end to it before that point tonight.

“...more than any of these useless subordinates have ever done,” Sherlock was saying as John got in between them. John wasn't listening really, but behind him he could hear Lestrade sigh. “... honestly, it's truly astonishing you haven't yet been killed with the level of idiocy you've shown, Lestrade.” John couldn't see, but behind him he could hear several pairs of feet rush forward towards them.  
“That's enough, Sherlock,” John said, his back straight, looking Sherlock straight in the eye. He had one hand on Sherlock's chest, the other pointed directly in his face. Sherlock deflated a little at John's stern tone, and the half-dozen pairs of eyes staring at him. Greg though, didn't meet Sherlock's eyes, his face contorting into that mask once more. John didn't see this, but he knew without having to look.

After a few tense moments, Greg walked passed them and opened the door to Donovan's car. John ushered Sherlock in, trying and failing to catch Greg's eye before he followed behind him. From the window, John couldn't see Greg's face, but by his gestures he could tell Greg was settling his team down. They had been ready to jump to his aid and he knew Greg appreciated it, but he'd never let them get between him and Sherlock. Sargent Donovan passed over the keys with only slight hesitation and went back to work as Greg returned to the car.

\-----

The car ride back to Baker Street was quiet. John wasn't sure _what_ was going on, but more than ever he was sure that _something_ was going on. Sherlock sat beside him sulking-not-sulking like only he could. Greg winced whenever they passed over a bumpy stretch of road. John, unsure of what to say, said nothing.

When they arrived, Greg didn't bother to turn off the engine. “Thanks, Greg,” John said as he got out. Greg hummed his acknowledgment and rubbed at his tired eyes. Sherlock followed closely behind him, but John was already digging in his pockets for the key when he realized Sherlock wasn't impatiently waiting for him to open up as usual.

He turned to see Sherlock holding open Greg's door, waiting. There it was again, whatever it was, John thought as he unlocked and opened the door. He heard the engine shut off and the car door close.

The three of them walked slowly up the stairs and once they were finally in the flat, they sort of just stood around. Not one of them really sure what to do after the ordeal they'd just experienced. They were probably all in a bit of shock, John knew. Sherlock's anger seemed to have dissipated during the ride. Greg still held his arm stiffly against his body. John wanted a cup of tea, but for some unknown reason, felt the need to watch the two of them instead. He wasn't sure what would happen if he left the room even for a minute, but he didn't want to miss it.

Greg and Sherlock stood more than an arm's length apart near the door still, but their bodies turned toward each other piqued John's interest. He was sure there was something they hadn't told him, that they seemed to not want to say aloud at all perhaps. It was awkward for him standing there watching them, not saying anything. To be sure, this was completely out of character for Sherlock. He didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock stand so still, not saying anything, not taking anything in. And Greg, he had that look again and it was just starting to drive John mad when Sherlock finally spoke up.

“Lestrade, I...” he trailed off. John gaped for a moment at the pure sincerity he heard in just those two words. He hadn't really said anything, but he meant whatever it was he hadn't said.  
Greg shook his head, “Forget it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighed and crossed between them to sit at his armchair for a moment before he jumped back to his feet. “How can you ask me to 'forget it'?”

John backed away and sat at the desk. He should probably step out of the room, he knew, but he didn't really want to at the moment. The other two didn't really even seem to notice he was there at all. Sherlock was standing at the fireplace and looked to be searching for something to say. Greg hadn't said anymore.

“I thought it was empty,” Sherlock said. “The gun. I should have _seen_. I was distracted.” He began pacing. “I should have seen, and I would have had you not been there.”  
Greg threw his good arm into the air in exasperation. “It's my job to be there.”  
"You're a distraction. You weren't always, but you are now. That is unacceptable.”

John was looking from Sherlock to Greg. Greg had that look the moment the words left Sherlock's mouth. John wondered if he'd actually been wearing that look since they'd left the crime scene. Perhaps he'd been wearing it for much longer, and John just hadn't noticed.

“That's called a conflict of interest,” Greg practically sighed. “And if that's what this is, then perhaps we should have a talk.”  
“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock said after a pause. “I simply must put forth an effort not to care what may happen to you in the line of duty,” he said.  
“Sorry, say that again,” John said after a pause. The other two men stopped and stared at him. “You don't mean that. He doesn't, Greg.”  
“It's fine, John,” Greg said, trying to ease the other man's temper. John hated when Sherlock acted like this. He put on the show of being cold and uncaring, but John knew the truth and since Sherlock's return, he wasn't afraid to call him out for acting like he was. “You do care, Sherlock. You're not going to just stop caring because of the work, that's not how it works.”  
“How what works?” Sherlock asked uninterested.  
“This,” John motioned between Sherlock and Greg. “Whatever it is you and Greg have, it works because you both care about each other. Christ, lately it seems like you two care a bit much the way you two have been acting.”

John wasn't exactly sure what he'd meant by that, but by the shared look between Sherlock and Greg he'd struck on something. The two of them looked away from each other.

John shook his head slightly. “Hold on, _is_ there something going on between the two of you?” John hadn't actually meant to ask that aloud, but it was out of his mouth the moment it popped into his head.

“No,”  
“Yes,” both men spoke at the same time.

John raised his eyebrow and nodded, “Yeah, alright. That explains quite a bit actually.”

Sherlock turned away to study the spine of a book on the mantle over the fireplace. Greg shuffled his feet where he stood and looked over to John.

“There is something going on between you two,” John said, not really a question anymore.  
Greg hesitated, but nodded. “Something like that.”  
John sat back in the chair, his hands folded together in his lap as he took that in for a moment. “Is this what you had on your mind that night after the Berger case? When we went out for a pint?”

Sherlock turned around and glared at Greg. “You went to John after we arg-, after we closed the Berger case?”  
Greg had blushed slightly, his tanned face growing rosy. John felt whatever he'd finally been let in on was something a bit rocky.\  
“You said everything was fine,” Sherlock said to Greg.  
Greg nodded. “I know, and it was, but I just needed to think through it before - ”  
“This is what you wanted, remember,” Sherlock interrupted.  
Greg nodded again. “Things have changed though, you know they have. Even John's seen it.”

“Wait a minute,” John said suddenly. “There's something going on between you two, but Sherlock, you were just going to _stop caring_ about Greg. After what happened tonight. Just like that?”  
Sherlock shook his head, resigned. “No, of course I didn't mean it like that. I was angry, upset perhaps.”  
“We knew something like this was going to come up,” Greg said tiredly. “Now here we are, we can't ignore it.”  
“I will have to better separate the work from our personal relationship,” Sherlock explained in frustration. “I will work on it, as will you. Neither of us can afford to make mistakes like we made today. Agreed?”  
“Sherlock,” Greg said solemnly. “I don't know that I can do that.” Greg winced at the pain that shot through him as his shrugged his left shoulder without thinking.

Sherlock walked over to where Greg was still standing by the door. Both men nearly forgetting about John's presence once more. Greg took in a deep breath when Sherlock reached out and stroked his knuckles just below the bandage on his upper arm. In turn, Greg took Sherlock by the chin and took a good look at the bruise forming along his sharp cheek bone. Looking at Greg look at Sherlock, John realized what that look was that he couldn't quite place before. He had trouble placing what it was because what it was was a great mix of deep emotions.

John could see that Greg not only cared about Sherlock, but was probably _in love_ with Sherlock. He wondered for how long; whether for those two years he'd lost his best friend, if Greg had felt he'd lost something completely different, something more? That well of guilt crept up once more at the thought that while Greg had spent so much time, so much effort taking care of all of them during that time, he himself had felt an incomparable loss that he didn't think he could share, had maybe tried to share recently, only to have John skip out on him.

Before John could say something, Sherlock spoke up. His voice soft, just barely audible to John, clearly meant just for Greg's ears.

“If you'd like out of this, Detective Inspector, you'll have to say so,” Sherlock was saying. “I, however, have no plans in leaving you behind again.”  
Greg shook his head slightly and looked at Sherlock with such fondness in his eyes John had to look away, embarrassed to be intruding on the two. “No,” he said after a long moment. “I don't want out of this. We'll just have to work on it.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. “You're bleeding. I'll patch you up. John keeps the flat well-stocked with supplies. Come.” With that, it seemed all was forgotten. Sherlock took Greg's hand in his and led them both to the bathroom to change the dressing on Greg's arm.

John was at a bit of a loss as he watched them disappear through the kitchen. Sherlock's tone left nothing to be considered. He obviously cared for Greg just as much as Greg seemed to care about him, he realized. John was quite sure he'd never heard Sherlock speak to anyone like that before, with such sincerity, but with also a bit of fear and hope in his voice. John was sure he'd never seen Greg like this before tonight either. Greg's rock-solid facade had been cracking, and John had just now seen how deeply all of the pain and hurt he'd been dealing with on his own ran.

John sat back in his chair at the desk and thought for a moment. A grin spread across his face rather quickly. Danger followed them all wherever they went, and they all needed someone to watch over and protect, and to watch over and protect them. Whatever it was that Sherlock and Greg shared now, John was glad for it. They would take care of each other.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Drop a comment. Thank you.


End file.
